Joseph Lewis's Blog, page 13

Meet Joan Livingston – An Author!

I had been wanting to interview Joan for a while now, but her schedule wouldn’t allow it. Things have settled down for her, so I was able to learn more about her and her writing.

I am an unabashed fan! I’ve read and reviewed most, if not all, of her books, and I find her stories engaging and interesting, and she most always fools me with the outcome. Her characters are quirky and loveable, especially the mother and daughter team of investigators. They live and breathe, and I can hear the accents of the region in their speech. The settings, small hilltowns of Western Massachusetts, are unique. Never having been there, I have no trouble picturing them.

Seriously, if you’ve not picked up one of her books, you are missing out on great writing. I hope you enjoy the interview as much as I enjoyed it.

What was it that made you decide you had a story to tell and to become an author?

I had two fabulous teachers in elementary school, plus professors in college, who recognized my writing ability and encourage me to pursue that form of creativity. I started with poetry. And then I had a 25-year writer’s block while I raised six children. That’s where most of my creative energy went. I put that time to good use reading what others wrote and eventually working as a reporter, which got me writing reality-based prose. By the time I became an editor, I was ready to go full-tilt on writing fiction.

As an author or writer, what sets you apart from others?

My philosophy is that I take what I know and have my way with it. And frankly, nobody else has had my experience in life.

How did your experience in journalism prepare you for writing novels?

I was in the business for 35 years, as a reporter and then editor, including editor-in-chief of newspapers in New Mexico and Western Massachusetts. First, journalism taught me to write for others and not just myself — finding readers news and features stories I thought they would find interesting. My beat was the hilltowns of Western Massachusetts. My writing was unadorned and to the point. (There are no adverbs in journalism.) The biggest challenge to fiction was learning to write long.

What genre do you write, and why?

I juggle between mystery and literary fiction.

If you were to name one or two books that you deem unforgettable and that had a major impact on you, what would they be, and why?

As a young person, “The Diary of Anne Frank,” had a tremendous impact emotionally — a young girl chronicling her experience while in hiding and her ultimate tragedy. There are many books in my collection that have made lasting impressions because of the stories they tell, but like many other people, “To Kill a Mockingbird” tops the list.

What authors do you read regularly? Why?

I often will find an author and read everything they wrote — and collect their books. I am always searching for new ones and taking recommendations from friends. I also like to read and support those authors I know.

If you were to have dinner with 5 individuals living or dead, who would they be and why?

Well, I’d love to have a dinner party with The Beatles — John, Paul, George and Ringo. Their music helped to transform my life in a positive way, plus there would be instruments so they could play. The Fifth Beatle? I haven’t decided.

What is your writing routine? When you write, are you a planner/outliner or are you a “pantser”?

I consider myself to be a telepathic writer. I am just the conduit for stories and their pieces. Typically, I am up early. When I had a full-time job, I was up at 5 a.m. to write before I left for work. Now that I don’t, I get up at the more reasonable 6 a.m. When writing a book, I will aim for 500 words a day, although sometimes I get carried away. A thousand would be golden.

When writing, how much do you read? Do you read in or out of your genre?

I honestly didn’t have the time to read when I had a full-time job, except for the news and feature stories I needed to edit. Now, I have more time to explore new authors and read books that the authors in my collection have recently released.

Is there something you set out to do, but somehow, it didn’t work out for you? (In terms of writing, or something else you felt was important to you at the time?)

One thing I learned quickly is that there is writing, and then there is the business of writing. I began writing fiction just before the turn of the millennial. But it took 17 years to find a publisher — crooked cat/darkstroke books — who wanted them. I even had two agents. But in that time, I saw drastic changes in the publishing industry.

What tips would you give to new or even experienced writers?

I will share the advice a former professor gave me: Write like it’s never been written before. From me: Write because you love doing it.

How do you handle a negative critique?

Well, being a journalist helped me to develop a thick skin when it comes to criticism. As an editor, I often took calls from people unhappy with coverage. I listened to them although the conversation ended if they started swearing at me. If they had a valid point, such as an error in reporting, I conceded, but often it came down to “we will have to agree to disagree.” Here is a story about that. When I was the editor-in-chief at The Taos News, I met with the then-sheriff and under-sheriff, cousins, by the way, who didn’t like an editorial I wrote. At the end, the under-sheriff told me, “I can forgive, but I can never forget.” When it comes to the books I write, I realize not everybody is going to love them. People are entitled to their opinion. But I am grateful to the many people who give my books high ratings and reviews.

Is there a type of writing/genre that you find difficult to write? Why?

I have written both fiction and non-fiction (as a journalist). I prefer reality-based writing although I do have a middle-grade series about a family of Jinn. I would say I have zero interest in these genres: sci-fi, adult fantasy, religious, romance, and historical.

How important are the elements of character, setting, and atmosphere to a story, and why?

These elements are crucial in writing mysteries. Mine are set in the hilltowns of Western Massachusetts, so I try to create an authentic setting. Since I lived there and immersed myself in its news, that hasn’t been difficult. The series’ atmosphere has drama because of the genre but also humor because the narrator is a bit of a wiseass. I would say my books are character-driven. Creating each character — good or bad — is so fulfilling. I liken it to having a daydream and making it better.

Do you see yourself in any of the characters you create? How/Why?

There is a lot of me in Isabel Long, protagonist in my Isabel Long Mystery Series. We share a lot of life experiences — although I am not a widow and my mother doesn’t live with me — and observations about life. We’re both former journalists, although unlike Isabel I didn’t lose my job when the paper went corporate. I let Isabel tell her own story.

Is there an unforgettable or memorable character that will not leave your head, either of your own creation or from a book you’ve read?

Frankly, I fall in love with all of my characters, even the bad ones, and the ones that I continue through this series unarguably haven’t left my head.

Tell us about your most recent book.

Following the Lead, no. 6 in the Isabel Long Mystery Series, will be released Nov. 3 by my publisher, Darkstroke Books, for Kindle readers. (Paperback readers will have to wait a little while.) It is available for pre-order until then.

Here is a brief synopsis:

Isabel Long moves quickly onto the next case when a former boss entrusts her with a mystery that has haunted him since his childhood. Lin Pierce, then only eleven, was supposed to be minding his little sister while their mother gave a piano lesson inside their home. But the sleeping baby was stolen from her carriage after he’d been lured away in a well-executed kidnapping that devastated the family.

Forty-nine years later, Lin is convinced he met his long-lost sister by chance. After all, the woman not only resembled his mother, but she had a distinctive family trait — different colored eyes.

As Isabel works her sixth case, she believes the student who took the piano lesson that day, later a well-known musician, is key to solving it. But meeting him in person proves to be nearly impossible.

As she did when she was a journalist, Isabel uses her resources — including her mother, Maria — to follow that lead until the end.

How did you come up with the concept?

The ending in No. 5 Working the Beat hints at the next in the series when Lin Pierce gives her an envelope he says contains her next case. So then I had to “dream up” what that could be.

How did you come up with the title?

Except for the second book, Redneck’s Revenge, the titles of the book are a reference to a journalism term. A lead — or lede — is the open paragraph. And then the news follows. In Isabel’s case, she gets a lead or clue and follows it to the end.

From your book, who is your favorite character? Who is your least favorite character? Why?

Well, that would be liking which of my six kids is my favorite. But I will admit that I dislike with good reason Jim Hawthorne, a former police chief with no morals. I let Isabel get into hot water through him.

Author, Joan Livingston

Author/media contact information

Website: www.joanlivingston.net. 

Facebook: www.facebook.com/JoanLivingstonAuthor/

Twitter: @joanlivingston 

Instagram: www.Instagram.com/JoanLivingston_Author

Link to book on Amazon

https://mybook.to/followingthelead

A Silver Lining and a Short Story

A while ago, I announced I was offered a position of story writer for Acorn TV. Unfortunately, like hundreds of other writers, I was scammed. It wasn’t Acorn offering me a position, but some guy or guys setting themselves up as Acorn. I still don’t know what the endgame was. They didn’t get any money from me. My work is all under copywrite. Lesson learned and all that.

Being the Pollyanna that I am, I found a silver lining. I hadn’t written a short story since 1987 when Dusty and Me was published by St. Anthony Messenger. And these scammers wanted short stories. So, I wrote three of them.

Writing a short story differs from book length fiction. The rising action has to occur at a faster pace. There are fewer characters. The final action and resolution is, like the rising action, at a faster pace. And short stories have fewer words.

A short story is anything over 1000 words and under 10,000 words. Micro Fiction or Flash Fiction is shorter than that, using less than 100 words. With the economy of words one needs to use, you can see the writing needs to be much tighter. No fluff, nothing added. As Sgt. Friday would say, “Only the facts, ma’am.” Yes, I showed my age there, didn’t I?

I found I enjoy writing both. I think writing short fiction helps to sharpen the pencil (or computer) when it comes to writing longer fiction.

With that, I thought I’d give you a short story I wrote. I pulled it out, tweaked it, did some edits, and here it is. I have an idea in the back of my head to write a book of short stories. This might be one of them. I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know what you think. It brought a tear to my eye and put a lump in my throat as I wrote it. It might do the same for you.

—

Memories and Regrets

by Joseph Lewis

9-20-22

            Richard made sure Jean was comfortable on the couch in her favorite seat. A glass of iced water sat on the coaster on the end table within her reach. Her wrinkled hands were on her lap, and she looked tired. Wheel of Fortune with Pat and Vanna was tuned in on the TV with the volume on low, and it looked to Richard that Jean might doze off. He had to hurry.

            Jean hadn’t eaten much, even though it was one of her favorite meals. Beef, small red potatoes, carrots and onions in a slow cooker, seasoned just right. Perhaps a bit more spicey than she liked it, but Richard ate it too, and he liked spicey anything.

            He scraped what was left on her plate into the garbage, then rinsed off both plates, cups, and silverware, and put them into the dishwasher with the rest of the day’s dirty dishes. He put in the soap pod and ran it so everything would be clean by morning.

            As was his habit each night, he ran the Swiffer around the floor and wiped down the counters and small kitchen table. Richard wanted everything neat and clean because he didn’t want anyone to have to clean up after them.

            He stood in the clean kitchen, made sure nothing was out of place, and began his walk to the living.

            Before he entered, he stood in the doorway with one hand on his chest and one hand on the wall to catch his breath, and waited until the pain abated. It didn’t last long. It used to be a now and then kind of thing, but in the last month, certainly in the last week, it happened more frequently.

            Before going to the living room, he stopped in their bedroom. He dug around in the closet until he found the large photo album Jean had put together in the last year with his help. They had tried to keep the pictures in chronological order as best they could.

            Before opening it, he ran his hand along the front of it. Warm and friendly to his touch, the leather cracked and creased, but not worn out. A tear escaped his eye, then another. He took out his hanky and wiped his eyes. He couldn’t afford for that to happen in front of Jean because it would set her off.

            He took a deep breath, picked up the album, and made it to the hallway before he had to catch his breath. He shut his eyes, willing the pain to subside, marshaling his lungs to function. He and Jean would be asleep soon enough. But first, he wanted to go through the album.

            He smiled, nodded, and walked into the living room.

            As Richard expected, Jean had dozed off, leaning her head against the corner of the couch, her chin tucked. She had managed to pull a blanket off the back of the couch to wrap herself in. The air conditioner was on and it was quite comfortable. But as she got older, her tolerance to cold and to heat had diminished.

            He set the album on the end table, and walked back into their bedroom, and got her slippers from the closet. After waking her up, Richard knew she would ask for them.

            Back in the living room, he stopped in the doorway to gaze at Jean.

            Still beautiful, though a bit wrinkly like he was. Not nearly as toned as she used to be. An avid runner and exercise buff, she had been forced to give that up in her sixties. Hadn’t done that in years. Now, they walk together. Shorter now, her hair gray and cut as short as she wore it in her younger years. Still beautiful to him. Always would be. The warmest smile. The kindest gray-green eyes.

            She always knew what she wanted and wasn’t shy about letting Richard know. When angry, her mouth would clamp shut and her chin stuck out a little. When that happened, look out! As forthright in older age as she was in her younger years.

            The first time they met, Jean had demanded a boy, Garrett, be removed from her PE class. Richard was a counselor back then, and asked, “Why?”

“Because he’s a criminal and a liability. That’s why.”

            As patiently as he could, he had explained that he couldn’t just move a kid out of her class. He had to build a case.

Her response was, “If something happens, it will be on your head, not mine.” After that declaration, she stormed out of his office.

            Not two weeks later, Jean had stormed back into the guidance area with Garrett in tow, and marched into Richard’s office without knocking.

            “I warned you,” was all she said.

            “What happened?” Richard asked.

            She turned to Garrett and asked, “Do you want to tell him, or should I?”

            Head down, Garrett shrugged.

            Jean shook her head and said, “He aimed a loaded bow and arrow at another teacher.”

            Richard removed Garrett from the class, and the assistant principal suspended him for ten days.

            Jean didn’t speak to Richard for a month. They would cross paths and hardly any word was spoken. Richard would say hello and smile, but Jean only nodded and maybe, on a good day, mutter a hello.

            Richard was intrigued by her. Thought about her often.

            A group of teachers decided to go to a comedy club on an early fall Friday night. On a whim, Richard asked Jean if she wanted to go along, and she smiled and said, “Sure. That would be fun.”

The incident with Garrett wasn’t mentioned.

            Their first official date was a baseball game the following Sunday. Neither of them liked baseball, but didn’t tell the other. They wanted to spend time together, but left after a couple of innings and went to a Mexican restaurant for dinner, and share stories and laughter, and the getting-to-know-you kinds of things.

            Movies, bicycle rides, and trips for ice cream followed. They spoke about getting married, but there was nothing official until one day when Richard said, “I suppose this is something we want to do.”

            It came out of the blue. No preamble, no context. Just the statement, “I suppose this is something we want to do.”

            Her answer? “I suppose so.”

Richard nodded and said, “I guess this is official, then.”

And Jean answered, “I suppose so.”

            Not the most of romantic of conversations that ever took place in the history of dating. Especially when you consider it was in the guidance area in front of Richard’s secretary, and during a drug bust. But of and by itself, sweet, in that both of them knew what was being said or asked without it actually being said or asked. And that typified their friendship and their marriage of fifty-six years. They knew each other. Their likes, dislikes, interests. Their tastes.

            Richard in his nineties, and Jean in her eighties. A ten-year difference that neither questioned. Both were adults who knew what they were looking for back then. The only regret they had was that they hadn’t begun dating earlier.

            Jean dozed peacefully, comfortably. He hated to wake her, but it was important to him, especially on this night.

            Richard slipped her slippers on her stocking feet. She stirred only a little. Then he sat down next to her and gently shook her arm. Her eyes fluttered, then opened fully.

            At first, it didn’t look as though she had recognized him. It happened more and more, and it hurt Richard, but he understood. Nothing neither of them could do about it, anyway. It happened with age.

            Then she smiled, her eyes lighting up.

            Richard loved her smile. It was that picture of her he took to bed each night, the picture he smiled at throughout the day.

            “I have our album, and I thought we might look at it together,” Richard said.

            He opened it so one half was on his lap, while the other half was on her lap.

            “Is that my mom and dad?” Jean asked.

            “No, sweetheart, that’s us on our wedding day.”

            She frowned and bent to inspect the picture more closely. “Oh, of course. How stupid of me.”

            “It’s not stupid. Back then, you looked a lot like your mother.”

            Their July wedding was hot, but fun. The rehearsal dinner was a cookout in a park. Laughter. Games. Complete and utter embarrassment as two friends in the bridal party roasted Richard and Jean. But it was all in fun.

            The birth of their daughter, Elizabeth. Liz, as they called her. A bright blond with blue eyes. Always smiling and laughing. Even to this day.

“Is that me as a baby or one of your sisters?”

Richard smiled sadly and said, “No, that’s Liz.”

“She always looked like you and your side of the family.”

Richard nodded. Liz was more like him than Jean, though as Liz got older, she became more like Jean and less like Richard.

The adoption of their son, John. Small and brown, wide smile and happy. Learning the English language from the radio and TV and from others conversing with him. Refusing to speak Spanish, his native tongue. Stubborn that way.

“Who is that little boy?” Jean asked with a frown.

“That’s Johnny. He had just come to us from Guatemala.”

“He was an artist and a soccer player.”

“Yes, and a really talented photographer.”

And their youngest, Ann. The tallest of their children. Smart. A quick wit, an avid reader like her older sister. As a baby, they couldn’t make her bottles fast enough to suit her. When she was hungry, she wanted to be fed right then and there. Always wanting to be held. Put her down, and she would wake up and raise a storm until she was held again.

            Family trips to the cottage on a lake in the northern woods. Tubing and swimming. Hikes and four-wheelers. S’mores around the firepit at night. Stories and laughter. So much laughter. Academic honors and athletic achievements. And college.

John, of course, went to an art school to study photography. Liz went to a large school to become a teacher like her mom and dad. Ann to a small school to play soccer, and then to a much larger school for graduate studies to become a social worker. Each with lives of their own now. Married with families they fussed over, like Richard and Jean did with them.

            Except for John, who died tragically. Richard didn’t want to think about it and didn’t want Jean to dwell on it. He purposely passed over that time in their lives. Not something he wanted to think about on this or any other night. Especially on this night.

            Vacations to the beach, the mountains. Amusement parks. The Grand Canyon.

            It saddened Richard. Jean had always wanted to go to Hawaii, and they never made it. He had wanted to take the whole family, but they couldn’t afford it. Now, they would never be able to go. It was Jean’s dream and Richard couldn’t deliver.

            Yet, as they went through the album together, they laughed and talked. Both wept, not so much in sadness, but in joy. Maybe some tears of regret. Surely some tears of regret. Not on Jean’s part, but on Richard’s part. He had always wanted to do more, to give more, and to please her and the kids. Now, unable to.

            The two of them closed the photo album, and Richard set it on the coffee table. He wanted to keep it there in case the kids would want to look through it when or if they stopped by. That didn’t happen much anymore, and it was never enough for Richard. Still, there was always the hope that one of both would visit. Richard was happiest when his family was all together. He knew that in the next few days, both girls would reach for the album again and again.

            Richard slipped his arm around Jean and held her, and she rested her head on his shoulder. He kissed her on the side of her head, near her forehead.

            “You know I love you, Jean, right?”

            She smiled up at him and said, “Of course I do. I love you too.”

            “Always.”

            Jean nodded and said, “Always.”

            “We had a pretty good life.”

            “Yes, a good life.”

            He kissed her again, and she reached over the held Richard’s hand.

            They sat for a bit, chit-chatted about this or that, and finally, with a yawn, Jean said she was tired and wanted to go to bed. Richard glanced at his watch and was surprised it was 9:00 p.m.

Like their life, his life, he wondered where the time went.

            He helped her off the couch and, with his arm around her shoulders, helped her get ready for bed. All the personal things done, she changed into her pajamas and crawled into bed. Richard sat on the side and held her hand.

            “Aren’t you coming to bed, Rich?”

            He kissed her forehead, smiled at her and said, “In a little while. There are some things I need to get done. If you’re sleeping, I might sleep in the other room because I don’t want to disturb you.”

            She looked at him questioningly, and then reached up and caressed his cheek. “I love you, Rich. Always have.”

            His heart climbed into his throat, and tears threatened to fall. He said, “I have loved no one as much as you, Jean.”

            She smiled and said, “You loved our kids, Johnny, Liz, and Ann.”

            He nodded and said, “They were the best gifts we gave each other. But I love you so much. Nothing will change that, Jean.”

            “You’re a sweet man, Rich.” And with that, she rolled onto her side and fell asleep.

            Richard remained there for a time, content to watch her. Her breathing was steady and deep. A small smile appeared on her face. He could sit there all night and not tire of it. And he wanted to, but he couldn’t.

            He stood up slowly so as not to disturb her and shut the door to a crack on his way out.

            In the hallway, he stopped to catch his breath and wipe away some tears with his hanky. He felt small. Jean had teased him he was shrinking, and the doctor confirmed it. But the smallness he felt had nothing to do with his height.

The pain in his chest hit him, and he winced.

            He shook his head. “Not yet, Lord. Give me some time, please.”

            Richard made his way to the desk in the kitchen, pulled out three envelopes, and placed them on the table. He had worked long and hard, starting and stopping, starting over. Crumpling up pages and beginning again. All the while keeping them from Jean. It was hard to do, because he kept nothing from her. Well, one or two things. One big thing. And only then because he didn’t want to worry her or the kids.

            He picked up his cell and phoned Ann. She told him about her new job, a new position. Richard was proud of her. He was certain Ann would make a difference in the world, a difference in the lives she worked with. Head-strong and determined, stubborn, but funny. She had him laughing with stories about her work.

            She and Jaquez were on their way to Liz and Rob’s house, and would be home in time for breakfast.

            “Drive slowly, Annie. Please watch your speed. It’s late and you have pretty far to go.”

            “It’s okay, Daddy. Jaq is driving, and he drives like an old man,” she said with a laugh.

            Richard heard Jaq protesting playfully in the background.

            “Just be careful.”

            “I will, Daddy. I love you.”

            “I love you too, Punkin.”

            After hanging up, he wept. He would miss her sassy tongue, her wit. Her smile and the way she talked with her hands.

            After gathering himself together, he made another phone call.

            “Hi, Dad! What’s up?”

            Liz was always so cheery, so bubbly. Richard loved her laugh, and longed for the road-trip days when the two of them, Liz and Ann, would sing along with the radio at the top of their lungs, complete with hand and arm motions, almost dancing in the backseat.

            He smiled at the memory.

            “Daddy, are you still there?”

            “Yes, Peanut. I’m here.”

            “Are you okay?”

            He nodded, blinked back tears, and said, “I’m okay, Peanut.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “Mom and I were going through the photo album together, and it brought back so many memories.”

            “As much as you two look through it, I’m surprised it’s not falling apart,” she laughed.

            “It’s holding up just fine. I wish all the memories were good, though.”

            “What do you mean?” Ann asked, sounding worried.

            “I keep thinking that I could have been a better dad to you, and Annie and Johnny. I wasn’t the best dad to you guys.”

            “I don’t know why you think that.”

            “Moving you all around from job to job. You guys having to start over. Never getting the credit for all the time and effort you put into soccer or swimming, into your grades. I’m sorry, Peanut.”

            “Daddy, we’re fine.”

            “I remember one time I took you and Annie shopping for school supplies. I can’t remember what grade, but you two were so unhappy and disappointed. I ruined it for both of you. I’m sorry about that.”

            “Daddy, that was a long time ago. It’s okay. Honest.”

            As if he hadn’t heard her, he said, “I regret not being a better father to Johnny. I was too hard on him. I regret not being there when he died. He died alone, and no one should ever die alone.”

            “Daddy, it couldn’t have been helped. If you were there, you could have died too.”

            “I never felt he liked me very much. And I loved him, Peanut. I loved all you guys.”

            “Daddy, Johnny loved you. We all did.”

            Richard could hear her weeping, her voice catching.

            “I just want you to know … I mean, I just need you to believe that I tried to do the best I could. I loved you guys. I tried to be a better father to you and Annie, because I knew I had screwed up with Johnny.”

            “Daddy, don’t say that. You didn’t screw up with Johnny. He loved you. You butted heads because he was so much like you. And Ann and I know you love us. We’re not angry with you. We love you.”

            The lump in Richard’s throat grew, almost choking him. He squawked, “Just please know I love you. I always loved you, and I’d do anything to fix things and make them better. If I could take back some of my words and take back some of my actions, I would, Peanut. Please make sure you and Annie believe that. Please?”

            “Daddy, there is nothing to take back. You were a great dad.”

            She was crying now. “Daddy, are you okay? Is everything all right?”

            “Yes, Peanut. Things will be okay. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry. It’s just that with some of the wonderful memories, there are some pretty shitty ones, too.”

            “No, Daddy. Only good ones.”

            Richard groaned as the pain in his chest hit him and took his breath away. He regained some control and knew he had to hurry.

            “One last thing before I go to bed, Peanut. I know you and Annie love your mom. Her memory is fading. Some days are good and she’s as sharp as she ever was. Other days, she forgets. She gets tired easily. Naps often.”

            “I know. After dinner, she falls asleep on the couch in her favorite spot.”

            “Just remind her every so often that we love her. Make sure you visit and call. She likes that.”

            “I know, Dad. We do.”

            “I know you do. I just don’t want you to forget.”

            “We would never do that, Daddy.”

            “Good. Thank you.”

            “Daddy, are you sure you’re okay? Is everything all right?”

            “Yes, Peanut. Everything is as it should be.”

            There was silence, not as comfortable as Richard wanted it to be.

            Liz said, “I think when Ann and Jaq get here, we’ll drive up tonight. That way, we can surprise mom in the morning. We’ll even take you guys out for breakfast.”

            “It will be late by the time Annie and Jaq get there, and you’re still an hour or so away.”

            “We’re night owls,” Liz laughed. “We’ll try not to wake you and mom when we get there.”

            Richard nodded, and he said, “Okay, but please be careful.”

            “We will.”

            “I love you, Peanut. Always and forever.”

            “Always and forever.”

            They ended the call, and Richard put both hands over his eyes and sobbed. He only wanted more time. More time with Jean. More time with Liz and Rob. More time with Annie and Jaq.

            More time to laugh, to talk. To just be together. More time.

            The letters would explain what he couldn’t say out loud. The letters would explain what he needed to say. He only hoped Liz and Annie would understand.

            Taking his time, stopping every few steps to catch his breath and fight off the pain, Richard walked to the nearest spare room by leaning against the wall.

            He turned on the light, sat down on the bed, and kicked off his shoes, only to bend down and straighten them. He loosened his belt and slipped off his jeans. He unbuttoned his shirt and folded both and put them with his shoes under the chair in the corner.

            On the chair laid out neatly was a pressed white shirt, a blue-striped tie, and his dark gray suit. His dress shoes and dark socks were under the suit.

            He shut the door to a crack, turned off the light, and slipped in between the sheets.

            Richard sighed. He wanted more time.

            There was so much more to say. He wanted to hold Jean one last time, maybe forever. He wanted to sit with Liz and Annie, listen to them tell their stories, hear them laugh. He knew Jaq would take good care of Annie, and he knew Rob would take good care of Liz. He couldn’t ask for better men for his daughters.

            Still, he wanted time to repair some of the hurt he caused. Try to take back some words he used. He wanted to say things he should have said, do things he should have done. Give them more. He wanted, needed, to make sure they knew he loved them.

            All he needed was a little more time.

I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Until next time …

Meet Eva Silverfine – An Author!

This interview was interesting to me, mostly because while she is a fellow Black Rose Writing author, I knew nothing about her or her work. Eva Silverfine wears several hats: biologist, copywriter, and author.

You will find her answers to questions sparse and succinct, but I believe that is from her work as a copywriter, and her dabbling with flash fiction. A copywriter’s function is to refine work to the essential without losing the overall flavor of the work. I could be wrong, but I saw this in her answers. Flash fiction strives to tell a story in 1,000 words or less. In other words, get to the point quickly and cleanly.

Still, the interview was interesting to me. I am a people-person and love meeting new and varied individuals. Eva is unique that way, and reminded me of a previous interview I did with an author friend, Tina O’Hailey. A similar genre, too.

Eva has a new book dropping in October: Ephemeral Wings. It not only sounds interesting, but thought-provoking, like her interview. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

What was it that made you decide you had a story to tell and to become an author?

From childhood, I wanted to create the intimate world I found when I immersed myself in a book. I’ve been writing in various forms for years, from journals and letters to personal narratives, short stories, and novels. Between working, children, and self-doubt, it has just taken me a long time to get where I am now.

As an author or writer, what sets you apart from others?

I would not claim to be unique, but a few factors that influence my writing include my formal education as a biologist and my work as a copy editor. I have developed a somewhat sparse style focused very much on my prose.

What genre do you write, and why?

My writing is all over the place—personal narratives, flash fiction, and novel-length work. Even within the novel, although my first two books are structured very much around the natural environment, and are best categorized as literary fiction, one of my WIPs is speculative fiction and the other is young adult.

If you were to name one or two books that you deem unforgettable and that had a major impact on you, what would they be, and why?

One dates back to my youth—Knee Deep in Thunder by Sheila Moon. I cannot even say what it was about that book, but I believe it inspired me to write and perhaps contributed to my studying biology and eventually incorporating that field into my writing. The other, read many years ago, is Heinrich Bölls Billiards at Half Past Nine. His sparse writing style and his telling of one day from the perspectives of different people was revelatory at the time.

What authors do you read regularly? Why?

I read all over the place and don’t “regularly” read anyone. However, some of my go-to authors are Margaret Atwood, Geraldine Brooks, Michael Chabon, Sarah Dunant, N.K. Jemison, Barbara Kingsolver, David Mitchell, Iain Pears, and Annie Proulx. When an interesting story line is combined with well-portrayed characters and good writing, I become immersed.

If you were to have dinner with 5 individuals living or dead, who would they be and why?

I could try to be erudite here, but I am going to be honest. When I read this question, the response that popped immediately into my head was people whom I have lost—family members and friends. I’ll leave it at that.

What is your writing routine? When you write, are you a planner/outliner or are you a “pantser”?

My routine varies. When I am working as an editor, I am not able to write, both because of time restraints but, more importantly, mental space/how my brain functions. When I am working on a novel, I try to push through a scene or segment in the course of a day and, importantly, set myself up for the next day. I am not an outliner, but I generally have an overall structure to the novel and fill in the “details” as I go along. Once I have a draft, I create an outline from it to remind me where I’ve introduced various pieces of the story.

When writing, how much do you read? Do you read in or out of your genre?

I continue to read as usual, sometimes in the genre of what I’m writing, sometimes not.

Is there something you set out to do, but somehow, it didn’t work out for you? (In terms of writing, or something else you felt was important to you at the time?)

Perhaps the best answer to this question is that I wish I had given more effort to getting my writing out in the world at an earlier age—I see the “cost” of not doing so now in terms of building a career. Making that effort required time and confidence, and those resources still seem to be a challenge.

What tips would you give to new or even experienced writers?

The greatest advice was given to me indirectly by my father, who read little because of undiagnosed dyslexia and, later, blindness—read your work aloud as part of your editing process.

How do you handle a negative critique?

Listen, sit on it a few days, and then evaluate what I want to take from the comments offered.

Is there a type of writing/genre that you find difficult to write? Why?

There are many genres I haven’t even tried to write and some I can’t imagine giving time to because they don’t interest me as a reader, such as romance and horror.

How important are the elements of character, setting, and atmosphere to a story, and why?

One of the things I like about writing flash fiction (variously described as 500 to 1,000 words) is how every aspect of the story is winnowed to the bare essentials—yet the writer has to accomplish them all—give a sense of the character, where they are, and what their state of mind is. In my novel-length writing, character and setting are essential to the story—atmosphere derives from them.

Do you see yourself in any of the characters you create? How/Why?

Pieces of me, yes, because these characters are creations of my mind. But in terms of motivations, values, personalities, I hope I go well beyond self.

Is there an unforgettable or memorable character that will not leave your head, either of your own creation or from a book you’ve read?

There is a character—rather a voice—who has popped up in a few of my short fictions. She has varied in age and in the topic at hand, but there is a sassiness to her that is a common thread. I think I’m not done with her yet.

Tell us about your most recent book. How did you come up with the concept?  

Years ago, a friend told me the story of burying her Bassett hound. That story, in a broad sense, became the arc of the novel.

How did you come up with the title?  

The title isn’t the original one, and I don’t remember when or how it came to me, but once it did, it stuck. Now I find some people assume from the title that the book is sad, but it is not.

Tell us about your work in progress.

Black Rose Writing will publish my novel, Ephemeral Wings, in October 2022. It is an allegorical coming-of-age fantasy (fable) about a mayfly nymph searching the stream for the richest of foods with which to nourish her flight in the world of air.As she travels the stream, she meets other streamlings—some malevolent, some benign—who offer advice based on perspectives they’ve garnered from their own experiences within the stream. I am looking forward to returning to a work in progress that is speculative fiction, currently titled The Equation. In this novel, I have created an alternative reproductive biology to our own, which results in a very different societal structure. There are well-kept secrets, families that become intertwined, and a growing push for social change in this very stratified society.

From your book, who is your favorite character? Who is your least favorite character? Why?  

There are three main characters, and I am attached to all of them equally, although I do have a soft spot for the ten-year-old boy. My least favorite characters, if I may, are those who facilitate the plans of the real estate developer, from politicians to his all-purpose lawyer.

Eva Silverfine, Author

Eva’s author/media contact information:

https://evasilverfine.com/home/

https://www.facebook.com/Eva-Silverfine-Author-304516263758574

https://www.instagram.com/evasilverfine/

Tweets by EvaSilverfine

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/how-to-bury-your-dog-eva-silverfine/1139915308?ean=9781684338214

A New, Additional Gig and Good News!

Those of you who follow me on Facebook or LinkedIn already know, but for those of you who don’t, I was fortunate to be recruited to be a Story Writer for Acorn TV, and I’ve been having a blast. It is quite a departure for me and my normal writing.

A little background …

The last short story I wrote, Dusty and Me, was published in about 1987. I wrote it after watching the movie Stand By Me, which was based on a Stephen King novella, The Body, that appeared in his collection, Different Seasons. The novella had long been one of my favorite works, and the movie, directed by Rob Reiner that starred Will Weaton and River Phoenix, moved me like no other. The first draft was written in about two hours. I polished and edited it and sent it off, and St. Anthony Messenger published it! It was the first piece of writing for which I received a nice sum of money. Nothing to retire on, but hey, it was nice to receive.

That was 1987. Today, it is 2022. Doing the math, that’s 35 years! I had not written a short story since until I was asked to do that for Acorn. I’ve submitted three so far and there will be more to come.

The first short I wrote for Acorn was a fantasy. Talk about a stretch! The closest thing to fantasy I’ve read was the Harry Potter series, and I don’t think that is true fantasy. The second thing I wrote was a romance. Guys, I write thriller-crime-fiction. I write about guns and fights and a few car chases, threats and mayhem, dying, dead and maimed bodies. Romance? Talk about a stretch. But I have to admit, that one was fun. Sad, but fun.

Typically in my books, I have many characters. I go into depth because I want my characters to live and breathe in the reader’s mind. I want readers to see and feel the setting and atmosphere. In a short story, much of it is condensed. There is still character development, though the number of characters is fewer. There is still setting and atmosphere, but word choice and brevity is key because the story is short, not long. The build up to the climax is a steep climb, rather than taking the reader down a path or three to get to the climax. And knowing that many of you have read my work, you understand I believe the ending of a story (paraphrasing Stephen King) should evolve into the next story. So in my short stories, the ending is there, the resolve is there, but the reader has a sense there is more to come. Again, as it should. I want the reader wanting more.

So far, Acorn hasn’t kicked me to the corner or laughed at my work. I am able to provide them with my books, which they are happy to receive. Obviously, there are no guarantees. They, along with my short stories, might be developed into something of a TV series or movie, but I can’t control that. I do my submission as I’m asked, and if something comes of it/them, great, good, and awesome. And if not, bummer.

That’s my new gig: Story Writer for Acorn TV.

Now for some great news:

My book, Betrayed, recently won two Top Shelf Awards: 1st Place Fiction-Mystery; and Runner-Up Fiction-Crime. That brings the number of awards for Betrayed to a whopping 7! I will leave the book description and link below for those of you who might be interested:

Betrayed by Joseph Lewis

Betrayed :

Integrity is protecting someone who betrayed you. Courage is keeping a promise, even though it might mean death.

A late-night phone call, a missing kid, a murdered family, and no one is talking. What was to be a fun hunting trip into a deadly showdown. Fifteen-year-old brothers George Tokay, Brian Evans and Brett McGovern face death on top of a mesa on the Navajo Nation Reservation in Arizona. They do not know why men are intent on killing them. https://t.co/9N5EDH93oX

I was recently interviewed by Feed My Reads, and if you are interested in getting to know me and in what I have to say, the link can be found at: https://timetofeedmyreads.blogspot.com/2022/08/joseph-lewis-interview.html

Last, my newest book, Fan Mail, will drop March 30, 2023, but it will be available for preorder before that date, and I will have author’s copies for sale and signing before that date as well. The Kindle and Nook version of the book will be out at some point after March 30.

Fan Mail differs from my other work. While it is still in the thriller-mystery-crime genre, and while it uses some of the same characters you’ve grown to enjoy, it is a coming-of-age piece embedded in a tight thriller. Here are some promo pieces I’ve come up with:

Fan Mail Short Blurb:

A car bomb, threatening letters, and a heart attack cause the once tight-knit and supportive family of adoptive brothers to turn on each other. Can Detectives Graff, O’Connor and Eiselmann solve who is behind it before the family is torn apart? Before anyone is seriously injured? Before one or more of the boys die?

Fan Mail Long Blurb:

A barrage of threatening letters, a car bomb, and a heart attack rip apart what was once a close-knit family of adopted brothers. Randy and Bobby, along with fellow band member and best friend, Danny, receive fan mail that turns menacing. They ignore it, but to their detriment. The sender turns up the heat. Violence upends their world. It rocks the relationship between the boys and ripples through their family, nearly killing their dad. As these boys turn on each other, adopted brother Brian flashes back to that event in Arizona where he nearly lost his life saving his brothers. The scars on his face and arms healed, but not his heart. Would he once again have to put himself in harm’s way to save them? And if faced with that choice, will he?

Fan Mail One Sentence Pitch:

Fan Mail is a multi-layered coming-of-age story about a family of adopted brothers, embedded in a gripping thriller that will keep the reader guessing who is behind the letters and the car bomb, and fearing one or more of the boys may die before the culprit is found.

Theresa Storke, one of my beta readers, a phenomenal English and Reading teacher, a great friend, and an even better person, helped me craft them. I owe her a debt of gratitude.

I hope you are looking forward to getting your copy. I’m eager to get it into your hands and to hear from you what you think.

Thank you for following along on my writing journey. I hope you are finding this website beneficial. If you have suggestions or questions, please let me know in the comment section. I’d love to hear from you. And as always, if you’ve read my work, I ask that you please review and/or rate it on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. They truly help. Obviously, 4s and 5s are the best, but once you read it, the book becomes yours based upon your experience and what the book does to your heart. Thanks in advance.

My Social Media Contact:

Author Website at https://www.jrlewisauthor.blog

Twitter at https://www.twitter.com/jrlewisauthor

Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/Joseph.Lewis.Author

Amazon at: http://www.amazon.com/Joseph-Lewis/e/B01FWB9AOI /

Blog at: https://www.simplethoughtsfromacomplicatedmindsortof.com